


Out of the Nursery

by theskywasblue



Series: Inception Domestic AU [10]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Domestic, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-08
Updated: 2014-02-08
Packaged: 2018-01-11 14:13:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1174037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theskywasblue/pseuds/theskywasblue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Izzie's first day of school</p>
            </blockquote>





	Out of the Nursery

“Alright, poppet, let’s have a goodbye kiss.”

“Nooo…” Izzie laughs, doing a squirmy little dance in her smart little yellow and white pinafore dress and blouse, fussing with the straps on her Iron Man backpack (the one she had wanted so she could be just like her big brother) “Your beard’s too prickly for kisses!”

“It wasn’t yesterday.”

Izzie plants her hands on her hips, and puts on her very serious face - which perfectly matches Arthur’s. “It is today.”

On any other day, Eames would wait her out; her little game is even cute. But it’s her first day of nursery school, and there’s no way he’s going to be able to send his little girl off without getting at least one kiss.

“Right here, then,” he taps his temple, and Izzie stretches up on her tiptoes to plant the tiniest of kisses right next to his eyebrow. It’s hard to resist the urge to scoop her up and kiss her little cheeks until she squeals; but he promised Arthur he would try not to make a scene. “Thank you, pet.”

“Can I go now?” She asks, practically vibrating with excitement. Watching Charlie go to school every day has bolstered her confidence - there’s none of the tears and hesitations that her brother showed on his first day of school. Izzie has grown from timid toddler to confident little girl, and it’s taken almost no time at all.

Eames is justifiably terrified.

“Have fun,” he tells her, kissing the top of her head. “Daddy will be here to get you, later.”

She’s off with barely a backwards glance, and Eames knows he should be proud to have raised such a confident, collected child, and not one of the ones currently clinging to their parents in the hallway and wailing at the top of their lungs; but instead he just feels sort of - bereft.

Of course, there’s plenty to do when he gets home: the morning’s breakfast dishes, the seemingly endless piles of laundry; on any other day, two and a half hours would seem like nothing at all. But the house is too quiet without his little girl. Even the cat seems to sense that something is off, and winds himself around Eames’ ankles, purring almost frantically.

About fifteen minutes into his fit of moping, the phone rings. It’s Arthur.

“Hey. How did it go?”

“Oh, swimmingly,” Eames laughs, trying not to sound desperate. “Not worried in the least. She barely stopped to give me a kiss.”

Arthur makes a sympathetic sound on the other end of the phone. “It’s only a few hours, Eames.”

“I know, but…”

“I was thinking of coming home,” Arthur says, abruptly. “I’m feeling a little - under the weather.”

That’s nowhere near a good enough excuse. Arthur only misses work if he physically can’t get out of bed. Eames practically had to tie him down when he had bronchitis in the spring and couldn’t sleep for coughing, because he _still_ wanted to do in to the office as long as he didn’t have a fever.

“It’s fine, Arthur, really.”

“I’ll be home soon,” Arthur says, and then he rings off, so there’s no more room for argument. Eames considers calling back, but instead, he gets up and starts on the dishes.

Arthur arrives barely twenty minutes later, which seems like a ridiculously short commute, until Eames remembers that it isn’t rush hour in any sense of the word; that Arthur has turned around and come home after barely being at work, just for him.

Eames meets him at the door. “I’m being a stupid git, I know -”

“No, you aren’t,” Arthur promises, dropping his briefcase and putting his arms around Eames. “Come here.”

Eames doesn’t cry, but it’s a bloody near thing. He stands in the kitchen and lets Arthur rub his back, patiently, until he can hold his head up again.

“You really didn’t have to come all this way, darling,” he says at last, rubbing at his eyes in a way he hopes isn’t too conspicuous. “I could have had a good cry, folded some knickers and been back to the school in time to pick Izzie up.”

Arthur laughs. “But I wouldn’t have been able to live with myself. And anyway, Mr. Fischer will fire me if he sees me sobbing like a baby at my desk.”

“God - please Arthur, don’t talk about babies.”

“Isabelle is not a baby anymore…” He says this very seriously, as if he's trying to remind himself more than Eames.

Eames pulls a face. “I’m not about to start calling her Isabelle, so don’t try and make me.”

Arthur sighs and shakes his head. “She’s a little girl, not a punk rocker.”

“It suits her,” Eames insists, and Arthur can’t argue because it always has; their little princess in a tutu and a football jersey.

Abruptly, Arthur changes the subject. “You’re picking her up at noon, right?”

“Of course, why?”

Arthur gives him a slow, wicked smile, and starts loosening his tie. It's a blatant distraction tactic, but Eames isn't about to try and stop him. “We’ve got lots of time, then. C’mon - I’ll give you all the kisses you want.”

-End-


End file.
